


From the Ashes

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-07
Updated: 2010-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <span><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/"><b>spnquotefic</b></a></span>  meme # 3, <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/spnquotefic/1401.html">Dead In The Water</a>.  <em>Dean: "Well maybe you don't think anyone will listen to you, or uh...or believe you. I want you to know that I will."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Ashes

These days, Sam only talks in his sleep.

Dean grips his coffee cup until the Styrofoam starts to crack beneath his sheer frustration while his brother sits at the table, angled towards the window but not really looking out - not really seeing anything.

He clears his throat, and Sam doesn't even twitch. He could be made of glass for all Dean can tell; a perfect shell with no one left inside.

An empty vessel.

Dean's blood boils at the thought.

He sets the cup down on the night stand and moves to sit across from his brother. Dean tries to draw Sam's eyes, but Sam looks away from him, down to the table top, where he studies the backs of his hands instead.

Dean sighs. He knows. He wants to tell Sam he _knows_ , but he _doesn't_ know, and his curiosity is killing him as much as his concern.

He clears his throat again.

"Sammy ..."

He trails off, noting the dark rings around Sam's eyes, the shadow of the new growth of beard on Sam's face. Sam's hands don't shake like Dean's had, but Dean thinks it would be better if they did.

It would be better if Sam would move at all.

It hurts, a little, that Sam won't talk to him about it, but he knows how it is. He's tried to be patient.

Only he _doesn't_ know, not really, because he was never cellmates with the devil and compared to that - nothing compares to that.

"Sammy," Dean starts again, more firmly, "When you're ready to talk ... I know that..."

He has to stop for a minute to swallow down the sudden tightness in his throat, to resist the impulse to just throw his arms around his brother and shush his bad dreams away like he could do when they were kids.

Sam raises his eyes, searching, and it gives Dean the push he needs to continue.

"I don't know what happened to you down there," he says, "but they can't hurt you anymore. You got that? It's over. I promise you that much."

Sam's blank expression cracks into something akin to sympathy and he shudders, drawing a breath as if to speak for the first time since Dean found him.

Dean finds himself holding his own breath in response. If there is only enough air in the room for one sentence, Dean wants it to be Sam's, and he wants to hear it.

Sam's voice is almost more like a thought than a whisper.

"They didn't torture me." Sam exhales the words slowly, as if releasing a horrible secret. His eyes flicker up to meet Dean's, and Dean's blood runs cold at the fear and loathing there.

"They didn't hurt me like they hurt you," he insists.

Dean nods, not sure what the catch is. "Okay, Sammy. It's okay."

Sam shakes his head violently, the first real movement Dean has seen. "No, you don't understand. I wasn't damned like you." Sam's eyes fall blank again, and he stares back down at the table, the words dropping off into silence.

"I was exalted."

Sam's hands are shaking, and Dean doesn't know what to say.

  



End file.
